A List of Names
by General-Jingwei
Summary: The new Order and the old Order; which holds truer to its noble ideals? The new Order can spread farther through the world with its technology, but the old Order lived by its ideals. Will the new Order stray from its righteous path?
1. Chapter 1

I'm back! Who missed me? Did you miss me? How about you? I got bored with Archer and Richtofen, but God forbid I should stop writing all together! I decided to just take a break for a while. And so it was that I wrote... this! It'll be a series of assassination one-shots that don't have any particular plot. I will still update my other stories though! Oh, and this is the odd first chapter, the really cinematic one. The rest will be in first person. Without further ado, please, enjoy!

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Altaïr Ibn-La'Ahad stole through the crowd, his traditional white robes blending with the scholars'. His target was the herald, standing on his small podium that resembled a gallows. The man was preaching of assassins, not the true words that Altaïr knew, the ones telling of defending the Holy Land. No, he preached of murderers that rampaged through crowds, killing civilians and Templars alike. He spoke of heartless men who massacred towns, burned cities to the ground.

The lone assassin climbed up a nearby church, noting an archer giving him a glare. However, the man did not raise his weapon; Altaïr had given him no reason for distress. Of course, the officer wasn't technically supposed to allow men on the roofs, but he would make an exception for the man who looked dangerous. So, the assassin perched upon the large iron cross… and listened.

"These… _men_ believe that they are noble. They believe that what they do is right, is just! However, their leader, the treacherous Grandmaster Assassin, has taught them in the ways of the unprincipled killers. He has ruined the men who could be doing right in the world; he has spoiled them. And for that, he must be eliminated! _All_ of his soldiers must be eliminated! _Every single one of them MUST BE CLEANSED!_" He finished his roaring and stepped off of the podium, walking through the crowd, which parted to let him through. Altaïr waited, noticing the man walk over to a narrow alley. The Master Assassin leapt forward off of the cross and landed in a barrow of hay, climbing out of it and startling the seemingly mindless citizens out of their heads.

The figure in the white robes gently pushed the people out of his way, seeing the herald turn a corner. Throwing caution to the wind, he began running, knocking bystanders out of his way as he did so. Altaïr was in hunter-mode, and he planned to deliver a quick death to his prey. All who slander the brotherhood must die; this is the truth that all assassins knew.

He was now in the clear, although he had lost sight of his target. He dashed through the passage, pushing off of the wall in order to keep his momentum. The herald was strolling down the alley, onto the longer part of the "L" shaped passage. The assassin kept running, unsheathing his hidden blade in anticipation. He knew what would happen now; what always happened when he ran after a target. The herald turned, hearing his footsteps pounding against the ground. Altaïr was never sure why the men ran; did the herald see his blade? Did he fear divine intervention from the lies he so confidently shouted?

Whatever the reason, the tale-teller began to run, his brown robes flapping behind him as his sandaled feet slapped against the dirt-covered ground. The assassin increased his speed, his left arm extended to the side and back of him as he tried to catch up with his prey. The herald was screaming… fool. If he was smart, he would not expend the energy he could be using to escape on shouting. Altaïr always waited for these opportunities; the times when the prey made their mistake were the times when the hunter struck. And so it was that this hunter struck his prey down; the assassin's white robes flew behind him as he leapt through the air, his blade piercing the man's neck.

Altaïr smiled, realizing what was happening now. He and his Order had the ability to enter a trance-like state with their kills; in the instant before their prey died, the hunters spoke to them.

"W…why?" the herald asked, his voice weaker than it had been on the podium. How ironic, thought Altaïr, that the man who used his voice for profit would lose it in the end.

"You spoke lies about my noble Order. I do not know what you were told, I do not know who told you, but it was your responsibility to discern between the truth and lies. Your time has come. Are there any last words that you would like to preach? Any last questions you would ask?"

"No… simply… goodbye, noble assassin." The herald's body shook one last time before he groaned… and died.

"May your words be forgotten. Rest in peace." Altaïr gently shut the man's eyes and came back to reality. He placed the man's body on the ground, retracted his blade, and calmly walked back out into the crowded marketplace. Altaïr Ibn-La'Ahad had done his duty, for himself… and for his Order.

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Please review!


	2. Thomas Cale

God, I love my job. Well, as much as one can love being a killer. An assassin, more specifically. A 1st-rank assassin, for the Order of Assassins, even _more_ specifically. It doesn't really get more descriptive than that. I stared at myself in the mirror and slicked my dirty-blonde hair back, so that it was not quite flat against my head. If only it would _stay that way_, goddammit. It never did what I wanted it to. Well, that's what gel is for. Lots and lots of hair gel, labeled: "extra hold for extra defiant hair". My ass it was; it lasted a few hours in the heat.

Oh, well. I looked at my sparkling white teeth, my acne free face, my bit of rugged stubble, and smiled. God, I was dashing. Not to be conceited, of course. I looked, too, at my (incredibly masculine) chest, covered in scars. What a shame. I sighed and donned a thick white T-shirt, covering it with a woolen London Fog coat, partly to keep me warm, and partly to hide the ornate silver hidden blade mechanism on my left wrist. The coat was black, of course; I always wore black along with my traditional white on my missions. If, that is, this was a mission; I had been given a list of names to research. Suspected active Templars; several of them. Eight, to be exact. Well, this was number one, and she was _gorgeous_. Not, of course, that that would affect my mission.

Probably.

Well, this was an extra-tough mission, one involving quite a bit of espionage and a long, _long_ prologue. One involving a mutual "friend" (a sleeper agent set up a few months ago by the higher ups) setting up a blind date. Then another blind date, this one with me rather than a stranger- because the first blind date was a purposeful failure. Just to lower her standards a bit. Then we had set up the location, a nice restaurant in a large shopping center, with a nice and secluded dark alleyway beside it. Just in case.

We were finally at the last step_- my _step, that is. I would go on the date, charm her a bit, use all of my natural good looks, and utilize all of my silver-tongued devilry to gain her trust. Then I would have to use my judgment and either kill her or, well, go out with her. Continuously, if needed. Which I hoped it would be.

I checked my teeth once more, sprayed a bit of some expensive French cologne on my jacket and T-shirt, and headed out. I was glad to leave the crappy little motel I'd been given; I had signed up under the false name of Thomas Cale, one of my favorites. My real name was almost nowhere on my official profile; well, the official profile everyone but the Assassins of the NSA had. The NSA, by the way, was the National Sect of Assassins. Russia had their KGB (Kings of God's Bounty), Britain had the SAS (Special Agents of Solitude- named thusly because they never worked in teams) and the other countries had... something.

Back on topic. I had been issued a shiny black BMW for this mission, and I loved it. Immensely. Unfortunately, it was for business only, and Ferris Bueller's little backwards-miles trick didn't work. Not that I hadn't tried it, as a kid.

I hopped in the drivers seat and admired the leather interior; leather and chrome, that is. I loved chrome. I turned the key in the ignition and the engine purred, nothing more than a quiet rumble. The gas was a bit jumpy, but otherwise it was the tops. The restaurant was only a few miles away, but it didn't matter; I was, as mentioned earlier, staying at a motel, so I couldn't be traced back to my home.

I hummed to myself until I pulled up to the restaurant's parking lot, ignoring the radio on my dashboard that was made specifically for communicating with my fellow Assassins. I did, however, check the clock, which read 6:30. I turned the keys in the ignition again and opened the door, trying to walk out without unbuckling my seatbelt. _Oh, good show, _I thought to myself, unbuckling thoroughly before exiting the car and walking into the restaurant.

I walked up to the man at the podium and mumbled, "I'm here for a woman named Renee?" I didn't know why I had ended it with a question mark- it probably would've sounded menacing otherwise, but I hadn't realized that at the time. I was operating on instinct now, allowing the thrill of the hunt to take myself over. I couldn't have told you, for example, why I kept glancing cautiously around, noting everyone's clothing and mannerisms. Or why I noted specifically that one man had an elaborate necklace on, one with a large brass cross with ruby inlay on the silver chain around his neck.

But I did note all of these things, and then think them over in due time. "Due time" being about three seconds, just before the greeter stopped looking through his ledger and glanced over at a certain table. "She's just over there, sir." I nodded and walked through the dimly lit, crowded restaurant, once again noting several things: the light from the lamps on the tables was barely enough to see by, which could be good or bad, depending. The people were being quiet, but with the amount of alcohol on these tables they would soon get loud. Very loud. Which would definitely be good if the shit hit the fan.

I saw her, then; tall, with red hair and a fair complexion. She was, as previously mentioned, _gorgeous_. She had a stunning black dress on, and I suddenly felt uncomfortable; my jacket felt like a ragged, torn up tank-top now. _Oi. 'Thomas'. It's a mission, remember. Look at that necklace; brass, a cross with a ruby inlay. Why does that ring a bell?_At the moment, I couldn't have answered myself. I was always confident; but here I was faltering. That's the mark of a great smooth-talker, though- never let 'em see you tremble. So, I took a deep breath and sat down.

"Renee, I presume?" I sat down and flashed her a smile before toying with my menu. She looked up and chuckled.

"No, just 'Renee'. And you'd be Thomas?" Her voice was silky, smooth, and seductive. I noticed that she had her hair in an odd fashion- Japanese-ish, if that's a word. It had those weird stick things in it, and it was in a bun.

It took me a bit to notice the pun, and when I did I laughed too hard. Of course, later I would say it was to make myself endearing. But it wasn't- just between you and me. "Erm. What're you ordering?" I started flipping through my own menu, noting all of the fancy choices- none of which I could pronounce, unfortunately.

"Well, the duck foie gras looks yummy. Do you know what foie gras is?" She sounded genuinely curious, and I flinched. _Well, smooth-talker, say fat liver in a sexy manner._

"Eh, do you really want to know? It means, well... fat liver." Her face went green, and I could see that I'd ruined a good bit of the menu for her. "Sorry, love. Should've denied knowledge." Here I smiled again, and this time she smiled back. _Get some!_ I quickly shut my inner voice up.

"Well, I won't be having that, then. How about this goose- nope. That's liver, too. You know, I've suddenly lost my appetite." Oh my. This could be bad- or, if she wasn't a murdering scumbag, good. I thought quickly and interjected before she could suggest leaving.

"Um, Ryan said the reservation cost... I forget the number, but there were more than two digits, that's for sure. How about we just enjoy the atmosphere and get to know each other? Ignoring the dirty looks from the waiters, of course." Here I threw a glance at the busy staff and rolled my eyes. Ryan, by the way, was the mutual friend.

She chuckled again, her laughter reminiscent of the tinkling of bells. No, that's not true at all, really- it's just a popular expression. "All right then, Thomas. Have any pets?"

Shit. Did Thomas? I didn't, of course, but did _Thomas_? No. I would have to go with no and hope. "No pets, Renee. Never really considered it- do you?"  
She smiled longingly. "No, but I've always wanted a cat. Just to snuggle with."

I nodded, as if I, too, had once longed to "snuggle'. Nope. Never have wanted to, never will want to. "Renee, that's quite a necklace you have there. Are you religious?" Where had I seen that damned necklace?

"No, not really. Although I do some work for the Church on the weekends." Ah. I wanted to believe her, but I was trained to spot a liar- her eyes had flicked left slightly when she'd said no. But that wasn't surefire; not yet, anyways.

"Well, I'm not really, either. Although I'm told my grandfather, or great-grandfather, or some such relative was a Templar." I was purposely vague on this subject, waiting for her reaction. It was the wrong one.

Her eyes lit up and she started, well, babbling. Sounded a bit like a teenager. "Oh, _really_? My dad is a Templar! Well, not gung-ho Holy War stuff, but apparently he does work for the Church. Somehow, someway." She tapered off towards the end, and then bit her lower lip. Which was beautifully ruby-red, by the way. Now I had several things against her; she "wasn't" religious, wore a great big cross on her neck because of fashion or some other unspecified reason, and likes talking about Templars. Crap. The talk became boring, until:

"Hey, Thomas, what happened to your ring finger?"

_Shit. Shit shit shit shit SHIT. _I hadn't thought up a cover story for that. The single most obvious identifying trait of a dedicated Assassin, and _I hadn't accounted for it. _That was a beginner's mistake, a very, _very_ green beginner. Time for a sob story. Wait, sob story? Does that befit Thomas Cale? Well, it would have to, because I was getting a funny look.

"My... my dad, he used to work at a lumbermill. The giant power saws were always running, and you couldn't hear someone two inches off without shouting. Well, I, being a brat of a child, wanted to go off and see one up close. My shoe was untied, though, so I fell, and then dad was there, and dad saved me, but dad, dad, dad _died, dad died and it was my fault." _Here I paused and glared down at my lap, conjuring a fake tear. Dad was still alive and well, in a cushy retirement home in the Bahamas, probably drinking out of coconuts with mom. Oh well, a little lie never hurt.

"Oh, Thomas, I'm so sorry!" She leaned over and hugged me, and then stood up. I had overdone it, but she, being intoxicated by wine and my devilish cunning, didn't notice. "Let's go, honey. I want you to see my house." All was going according to plan- both plans, humorously enough. There was one last thing I had to try, though.

As we walked out, after leaving a few dollars for the drinks she had ordered without my knowledge, I prepared to ask my one last question. The one that either saved or damned her. My trained eye noticed her hand twitch on the way out the door- was she still upset over my previous episode? Huh. I hadn't figured her to be the obsessive type of girl.

Well, here we go. "Honey, if you had to pick, what time era would you live in?" I ignored the sappy answer that she gave me about whichever one I was in and waited, probing with my eyes.

"Well, I guess if I had to pick... the early 1100s to the late 1200s." And there it was. The Crusades had gone over a span of those years. I suppose I should explain: for espionage like this, we had several "killing questions". If the other party is a history buff, which Renee, according to my sources, was, you ask that one. That question only works if you have other damning information- which I did. No woman would choose to live before plumbing- no educated one, anyways.

Also, she said "I do some work for the Church." Not, "the church down the corner," just "The Church." THE Church, capital T-H-E C. I hated this part. I silently unsheathed my hidden blade and sighed aloud. "Renee, I hate to do this, I really do. But it's time for you to pass on."


	3. Thomas Cale, concluded

_In an instant my blade was at her neck- or, where her neck had been. Because now she was a foot away, and she had pulled the weird chopstick things out of her hair- which was now flowing beautifully. "Let's move somewhere more private, eh?" I nodded to the alleyway, and we slowly moved into it. I had meant to kill her on the sidewalk and then "walk" her body to the alley, but this was even better._

"Thomas, you fool," she whispered. "I thought you were cute." Of course she had. It was my job to look cute.

"Renee, dearest, I'm not enjoying this, so just let me kill you and leave. It's much better than you trying to fight me with chopsticks." The sticks presently made a hissing sound, and razor sharp but flimsy blades came out of the tips. Oh. "Um. Still, I will kill you." And, on that graceful note, I charged at her, grasping her left wrist with my right hand and blocking her right knife with my blade's wristguard. I twisted her left hand until she dropped the blade with a screech, and then used my now-free hand to snap her left wrist. Quick and clean, it left her weaponless. As far as I knew.

So, when she pulled out the silenced pistol with her unbroken hand and took a step back, I was surprised. Not as surprised as she was, though, when I spun and kicked the gun away with my right foot, using my momentum to carry myself into another spin, at the end of which I leaped on her and plunged the blade into her throat. Ouch.

Then there was the Blue Room, as I had come to call it. The short "redemption" period where you pace around and wait for the victim to die. Which isn't always a quick occurrence.

So, I paced back and forth in front of her body and spoke. "This, Renee darling, is when you confess your sins." She said nothing, but simply laughed. I crouched down near her head and whispered in her ear. "If you don't confess to something, I may lose my job."

"Fine, then," she replied. "I confess to the murder of one Thomas Cale." Er. What? Really though, _what?_

_ "_Excuse me, miss, I think you're confused. You see, _I've _killed _you,_ not vice-versa. How much wine _did _you have?" I waited for her response with bated breath.

Thomas, if you hadn't been so stricken by my beauty, you may have noticed my necklace, and not just what it lies between." Oi! That hurt.

"Wait-a-minute, the necklace! The damned necklace that that man was wearing! It matches yours- back-up, I presume? And your hand- you twitched your hand on the way out! But that must have been an all-clear- that _was_ the all-clear, wasn't it?" My mind was racing, and I was talking a mile-a-minute.

"Templars are smarter than you Assassins. That was the 'come out and check in two minutes' signal, because if things went sour, and you were an Assassin, I'd have to kill you." Wait a second. She was on a mission, too? "Uh, Renee... you were on a mission, too? Does this mean that the Templars know about me?" Oh shit. My blood went cold- if they knew I was an Assassin- but wait. My name. They didn't know that my real name wasn't Thomas, they couldn't know or she wouldn't still be calling me by it.

She didn't answer, so I grabbed her by the hair and repeated my question. "_Do. The. Templars. Know. About. Me. Yes or no, Renee?_" I saw it in her eyes, then; fear. It always came down to fear with me. As soon as I made that realization, my heart turned stony. Here was this woman, this woman I had begun to fall for, dying on the floor in front of me, and all I was doing was scaring her. Well, shit. It always seemed to turn out this way.

"N-no! No, Thomas! It's just procedure- just in case!" Wow. So Templars really don't have personal lives. Huh. I let go of her head and it hit the floor- if it was a floor- with a thud. Damn. I should be nicer. I stood back up and resumed pacing. "T-Thomas?"

I stopped, and my voiced softened. "What, Renee?"

"Am... am I really dying?" With that, her voice gave out, and her head lolled to the side. I sighed, taking the "feather" from my coat pocket and using it to collect a blood sample- and the metal device, which was shaped like a feather, sent it to the NSA. That was done. The Blue Room fell away, and I was back in the dark alley. But not for long.

I looked around at the walls, not bothering to hide the body. The Templars wouldn't want to make a big deal of this; it always happened like this. If an Assassin was killed, we found out who had done it on our own and killed him. And his family. And his friends. If a Templar was killed, they tried to find out who did it, but rarely did so. One wall had a pipe leading up to the roof, and the other had a Dumpster pressed against it with a few rugged bricks that might provide fingerholds. Which to take? Shimmy up the pipe or scale the wall?

I jumped on top of the Dumpster and clambered lightly up the wall, taking to the rooftops until I got to the end of the shopping center. Then I slid down the wall to the floor, walking back around to the restaurant. By this time, the man had come and gone, leaving the body for the police to find. I slipped into my car and drove off, stopping back at the motel long enough to check out and get my stuff. I wanted that goddamned expensive cologne- at least I'd get _something _out of this mission. I sighed as I drove away from the city, heading back to my very nice, very large house in Seattle. I didn't know, really, why there were so many windows in it. All you ever got to see was snow and rain, but I liked it that way. Here I was known as Jacob Smith- by the few people who knew me.

I walked through the door and was greeted by a note on my dining room table, which read: _Good work, "Thomas". You've got money in the safe._

I opened the safe that I kept behind my couch and removed the stack of hundreds. _A hitman,_ I thought grimly. _I've become a hitman. _


	4. Interlude One

_Hey, guys. You may notice that I switched; between Altair and "Thomas", that is. This story will focus on the present-day Order and the old Order, noting the differences between the two while providing good-old blood and gore. I mean, several dramatic fight scenes. Enjoy! Also: Anyone who provides me with one of the references from the names will be rewarded. With cyber cookies. _

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**Irlav Jerol: **_Killed.  
_**Pietr Pamun:  
Gladin Muafun:  
Mikhail Mounce:  
Ari Commin:**_  
_

"It is done, Master." Altaϊr laid the bloody feather on Al Mualim's desk rather grimly for someone who did this kind of thing weekly, if not daily. Al Mualim looked up from one of his many books, all of which were written in Latin. He was a bit of a show off, at times.

"Ah, my boy, I have indeed received word that this is true. You did well; no one noticed until well after he was already dead. For this, you have honored yourself." He looked back down at his book, mumbling that Altaϊr should go down to the training grounds and show Malik and the boys how it's done. Of course, he didn't phrase it like that; but that is what he meant, nonetheless.

Malik wasn't at the practice grounds, nor was his brother, so he had to settle for practicing with his fellow Assassins and the soldiers they trained. He stepped into the ring and cracked his neck, taking the practice blade that was offered him. It was forged of fine steel; balanced well, too. Then again, so were all the other swords the Assassins used. Only the best.

Altaϊr spun the sword a bit, getting a feel for how it handled, and then nodded to the senior trainer. Another man stepped in- although this one was closer to a boy. He was barely out of his teen years, at most. Altaϊr allowed his soon-to-be combatant to practice as well, and then, when he had nodded to the trainer, readied himself.

They circled each other for a few moments before the other man struck, lunging forward in an attempt to drive his blade into Altaϊr's heart- because the Assassins don't play around. If you weren't fast enough, you were wounded, sometimes seriously- of course, most of the Assassins went easy on each other, simply for practicality's sake. Injured fighters were useless in times of war.

Altaϊr stepped to the left and guided the tip of his opponent's blade to the right- his right, in any case. He used the tip of his own blade to do this, and suddenly snapped it downwards, changing the motion from gentle to violent. The boy was confused by this, and allowed his blade to strike the ground before trying, in vain, to retreat. Altaϊr approached his enemy swiftly and kicked his right wrist, causing him to drop his sword and rendering him weaponless. Then he moved in for the killing blow.

Or what would have been the killing blow, if he hadn't pulled back at the last moment. He swung his sword at the man's neck and stopped, twisting it and slapping the boy with the flat of his blade. "_Finite,_" he muttered, unable to resist the theatrical touch. The boy hung his head in shame and stepped out of the ring, handing his sword in on the way out. "Now, who else wants a turn?"

Altaϊr noted a group of four men speaking in hushed tones on the sidelines. After a moment of silence, all four of them grabbed swords from the barrel and stepped into the ring- or, as it was also known, the killzone. The trainer stepped up to Altaϊr and whispered, "You don't have to do this. There is no shame in yielding to such odds." He looked at the trainer and replied that he relished the challenge.

Altaϊr gave his sword a whirl again and motioned for the men to come at him, taunting them with his eyes. They all looked at each other and nodded, before turning to Altaϊr and charging. They came at him in a row, each with their sword in a different position. He noted that the man on the left end had it extended outward, as if planning to simply skewer him. That was a mistake.

Altaϊr waited until they were almost upon them and spun towards the man on the left, jabbing into his unguarded foot as he passed. This resulted in one enemy on the floor sobbing, with the rest of them a lot less confident. This time they advanced slowly, allowing Altaϊr time to move directly into the center of the ring. Seeing this, the other three formed a triangle around him. Now it was time to see if the man would live up to the legend.

They all began closing the gap slowly until they could circle him, and started taking jabs at him. None of these were serious, and he could avoid them all. He was waiting, waiting like the eagle waits for the snake... and then the eagle swooped. He leaped at one of the men, shoving his sword-hand outwards and jabbing him in the neck with his fist. Then he spun on his heel, kicking another man's legs from beneath him and stomping on his stomach, although not hard enough to do any real damage. The final man looked at him with wonder.

He barely had time to gasp before Altaϊr was upon him, delivering a vicious backhand and planting a knee in his stomach before pushing him to the ground triumphantly. Secretly, he breathed a sigh of relief, noting that he had a few scratches on him. Still, it was all in a day's work. Now he could relax and unwind before proceeding to his next target.


	5. Interlude Two

Hey, guys. I tried a new style of writing (Italic parenthesis) because I like how it works when Stephen King does it. Tell me how you like it, yeah?

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I lay back on my couch, cradling a bottle of Scotch in my hands like one would a mug of coffee in the morning. More specifically, my third bottle of Scotch. Poor Renee, but no, I mustn't think of that. _Oh? Then what about Jack, or Leia, or Meryl, or David, or the countless other people you've _murdered

_(it wasn't murder)_

_without a second thought? You never even asked why. The Order is corrupt, you know that. So why do you still-_ he stopped himself. Those thoughts went against everything he had learned as a child, everything he had been, as Mark Twain would say, "tutored in".

Sheila walked out of the back room, pulling her shirt on and heading for the door. Was her name Sheila? I didn't remember. Would I remember that she had been here in a few hours? Probably not. _You're killing yourself._ Yes well... one life for the sake of many, eh?

"You're killing yourself, you know." I said it out loud this time, standing up and looking at the clock. 4:30 AM. Huh. When did I do Jenny in? Wait, not Jenny, Renee. When did I kill Renee? I didn't know

_(or care)_

but I did want to go to sleep. I sat on my bed for the longest of times, not even noticing that I'd walked to it from the couch. _Had _I? Or had I just been sitting there the whole time?

I checked the clock again. It was now 1:00 PM, and I was lying in vomit. Wait, what? Ugh. What did I _do _last night? _Ya drank, mate. The demon drink got ya again. Now you have a hangover, and because you have a hangover, I have a hangover. So fuck you._ Ouch.

I stretched, stood up, and yawned. In that order, which seemed backwards to me. I cracked my neck and walked over to my bathroom, stepped into the shower and, well, showered. I also slipped, but I caught myself. On the floor. Which only hurt a bit. Stop it. WAKE UP. WAKEUPWAKEUPWAKEUP now or else you never will again...

That was when I realized it. I was sagging, beginning to fall forward. What the fuck? I straightened myself, shutting the water off. I leaned against the wall, my vision blurring and my lips beginning to get heavy... were they? My lids lowered themselves, and I stepped out of the shower, trying to keep awake and alive. I stumbled over to my freezer and opened it, shoving my head in the ice bucket. Was that a good idea or a bad one?

I didn't know, but then again, I also didn't know if I was stroking out or what. So I jogged in place, not once going for my phone, although I felt that I should. Something was stopping me- was it because I didn't want to know? Hell, if I was going to die here, I wasn't going down without a goddamned fight.

After ten minutes of jogging in place and drinking shit tons of water,

_(no more alcohol never not ever)_

I realized that I could open my eyes fully. I stopped moving, testing my various bodily functions. I could do jumping jacks, clap, and do a handstand. I was probably fine. Maybe. _Oi. Now I have a headache and a fear of dying, so go do something happy._ God damn it. That voice was supposed to be helpful.

And now you're talking about the voices in your head as separate entities. Good fucking deal. I shook my head and sighed. It was time. Time to check the safe and see if I- wait-a-minute. No. No more dead drop deals. Time for a face-to-face with a higher-up. I went to the safe and opened it, checking the scrawled words: _Nathan Williams. 1389 Rosewall ave. Quick and clean. Let the cops find his body, leave no trace. _Fuck you.

I am NOT a hitman. So I wrote my reply on the back of the note: _Face-to-face meeting. Now._ As far as I understood, they showed up in the night to drop it off and then monitored me. So, they would eventually check the back of the note for what I wrote. For now, though, I huddled on my couch and hugged my knees, crying and longing for a normal life. _Tough, mate. You were born with this shit._


	6. Altair

_Hey, guys! This is, what, chapter six? Well, I haven't recieved a single review. So, not to sound greedy or anything, but I don't know if anyone's even reading this! Just drop an "It's good" or an "It's bad", or something! Of course, longer, more helpful reviews are more appreciated. There's my allotted rant. Enjoy! Also; this is a short one, but I didn't want to commit to an Interlude, a Briefing, and a Mission each time, so I just kinda winged it here. Next one should be about twice as long._

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Altaϊr awoke from a deep sleep and a troubled dream, in which he was being surrounded by the men he had killed. The warm, comforting blanket of his conviction, of his Order, kept the evil spirits at bay, and that kept him safe. He awoke from that dream each night, and then prayed for his safe deliverance. This morning was no different.

He lifted himself off of his knees and stepped away from his bedside. Cracking his neck and wrists, he donned his wrist gauntlets, making sure his hidden blade was clean and sharp. He then pulled on his robes, attaching the ornate silver belt and his sword. He also pulled his shoulder-strap on, sliding his short blade into it. Finally, he attached his throwing knives to his belt. He was ready for the day- or, more accurately, the mission.

Stepping out of the diner thirty minutes later, with just enough fruit in him to keep away the pangs of hunger, he walked into Al Mualim's office. He stood in front of his desk and the man who led his noble order turned to face him. A small smile danced across his lips. "Ah, Altaϊr! Good to see you. You are prepared, I assume, for the task at hand?" Without waiting for an answer, he plowed on to finish his speech.

"The man that you are hunting today has sinned against us in many ways. His name is Pietr Pamun, and he has openly insulted our way of life. He is the owner of a large city, one south of Jerusalem called Arcilah. When I say owner, I mean that it is he who holds the most sway over the people there. Our bureau in the area has suffered, for someone discovered its location and vandalized it before sending city guards to arrest Pomon, our agent there. Pomon managed to escape, and is staying at an allied inn. You will meet him there, a place called The Haven for All- appropriate, in this case. Speak to him, and receive the rest of your instruction. Go swiftly, my friend."

With that, he turned to his books and began to study one in particular, although Altaϊr felt that eavesdropping would be rude. The Assassin turned and walked quickly down the stairs, heading out the front door. At the city's limits, he took a horse and rode to Arcilah, following the signposts when necessary. Once at the outskirts, he left his horse at a pile of hay and proceeded to the poor district, where he could pass unmolested through the streets to the inn.

He stepped through the large, wooden doors and saw the man at the desk look up. "Are you here for a room or for food and drink? Or, perhaps, both?" He looked hopeful, as if he didn't get many customers. What a shame.

"Neither, friend. I am here to see a man named Pomon. Can you direct me to his room?" The man was disappointed, glancing at his shoes before looking back up at Altaϊr.  
"Ah, yes, of course. Go up the stairs to your left and head to the end of the hall- you'll walk right into it." Altaϊr thanked the man and left a few coins on the desk. "Ah- ah, thank you, kind sir!" Altaϊr nodded and followed the man's directions, heading upstairs and straight down the corridor, knocking thrice on the door there. A man opened it, and the first thing Altaϊr noted was that this man was in bad condition. It looked as though he had been beaten, and several spots on his face were purple and swollen. Other than that, Altaϊr noted that he was in very good physical shape- dressed in homely peasant's attire of ragged pants and a tattered shirt, he probably could have given the guards a run for their money.

Pomon scratched at his scraggly black beard and urged Altaϊr into a nearby chair. "Please, excuse my appearance- I assume you know my story." After Altaϊr had spoken in the affirmative, he continued. "This man, Pietr Pamun, is giving a small address to his people today- one that is about my escape, no doubt. He will be sending out the hounds, so I need you to kill him after he has mentioned me, and then warn the people to stay away." He gazed into Altaϊr's eyes intently. "Please- my life, and, perhaps, the safety of our great Order, depends on this. Do not let them kill me, I beg of you."

"Indeed, I can see that your words are true. When does this speech begin?"

"In thirty minutes exactly. Go with haste, my friend, please!"

"Indeed. One last question; is he giving the address from the balcony of his palace?"

"Yes, he never ventures outside anymore. He's always under heavy guard."

"Understood. I'll handle it."


End file.
